


Sherlock: The Cailleach of Caerdydd

by Blackthorn1972



Series: Sherlock: The Irish Conundrum [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Archaeology, Car Chases, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Fights, Mystery, Other, Paganism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:50:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackthorn1972/pseuds/Blackthorn1972
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After foiling an IRA cigarette smuggling ring in London, with intrigue continuing to surround dead Irish rally drivers who were pressed into working for the ring, John and Sherlock take a sideline into Cardiff to investigate a missing artefact of the Morrigan that is at the center of a vicious tiff between two neo-pagan sects, one of whom has employed the worst kind of transient bare knuckle fighters to cause even more mischief.  A little Johnlock angst but mostly lots of humor and male bonding are the game here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock: The Cailleach of Caerdydd

Sherlock’s ability while driving to settle into a long reverie, without getting bored, was thankfully due to his instincts for instant decision making being used every second in lucid meditation. His eyes were currently on the M4 motorway, heading directly west to Cardiff. While he drove, Sherlock was perfectly sane, logical, and even downright pleasant to be with. This was a welcome state for John, who, having recovered from his interesting previous week, only wanted to enjoy a complete change of scenery from London.

They had gotten up entirely too early to finish packing. Mrs Hudson brought their tea up when she heard movement, which John especially appreciated. His throat was still a bit sore. 

They picked up the usual top of the line gunmetal Landrover Defender at Westminster Motors, picked up Sherlock’s new bank card at the Lloyds branch office, and were off. 

Just outside Reading, John put his seat back. “You mind giving me the full briefing closer on to Bristol?” asked John.

“Not a problem.” Sherlock glanced over at John. “I think you’ll really like this one. A bit more relaxing. Disappearances of museum artifacts, screaming in the night, that sort of thing.”

John smiled. “Can’t wait.” And rolled over to snooze with the M4 hurtling past. He had thrown away his last day of pain meds out of stubbornness, and figured a little sleep would sort him out along with a few extra cups of tea. He was thankful that Sherlock hadn’t kept him talking.

While driving, Sherlock went to his secondary mind palace, recalling the last email he had gotten from Doctor Owen Pritchard, junior curator of the antiquities department of the national museum in Cardiff and lecture professor next door to the museum at Cardiff University.   
Pritchard seemed scared to death in his last email, and had come near to begging Sherlock to get there as quickly as possible. That had been on Sunday, and Sherlock was able to tell him that he’d be able to depart the following morning, and it seemed to comfort Pritchard a little. 

Sherlock recalled the oddest part of the letter. “I woke up this morning up at my holiday cabin in Merthyr only to have a beautifully forged pictish bellows spear embedded in the front garden, jammed into the ground on my guest lecture photo. It had been newly made. So either an ancient tribal blacksmith has awoken from two thousand years of sleep and given me this as a present, or someone is attempting to scare me, and they are succeeding.

“In addition to the drumming and screeching the last two nights, I might add. There’s nobody around living within 500 metres of this cabin, and it’s adjacent to the Tydfil forest. So I am not safe getting threats at my home in Cardiff, and less safe here.”

“Please help me find whoever’s doing this. I know why, but it doesn’t make any sense. You’ll find out more when you get here.”

Sherlock had looked up a few details of Pritchard’s letter, but preferred to let him provide the details, since full interaction always spoke volumes. The bellows spear was a multi-barbed Pictish and Celtic weapon native to pre-Christian tribes in Scotland and Northern Ireland, but not to the Brythonic tribes of Wales. 

Somebody meant business, obviously, but it was historical business. Over something that Pritchard had in his possession, obviously. 

John snoozed quietly as the flat midland fields of Wickham charged past.

Outside Bristol, John yawned, stretched, and picked up the atlas showing their destinations in Cardiff and further north in the Merthyr vale.

Then he turned it sideways to look harder at the placenames. He glanced up. “You have to wonder how many Y’s, W’s, double-L’s and double-D’s you can fit into a word before it becomes unpronounceable. A lot, apparently.”

“John.” sighed Sherlock.

“What?”

“Your London’s showing. Zip it away.” He shifted lanes to come off the M4 for a quick bite to eat in Hambrook.

“Do you think I could learn Welsh while we’re there?” asked John.

“Probably not. But that’s not a problem.” said Sherlock. “Have you ever been to Wales?”

“No. Not Ireland, either. Just most of the Middle East and half of Western Europe. I’m afraid that I’m horribly boring.” John thought Sherlock would notice his sarcasm, since John attended regular conventions on updated pharmaceuticals and equipment for the medical trade, held in Dublin. (Apparently not.)

“No, you’re just horribly English." said Sherlock. "Gallivanting about the planet and an insular local back home. Desiring everything back home to be as predictable and boring as possible, down to your brand of biscuit.”

“Tell me that’s one thing you don’t like about me. Say it.” John taunted, grinning.

Sherlock smiled. “I won’t. Someone has to be that, I suppose. Otherwise life would fall apart.”

“Thank you.” John nodded and looked again at the atlas. They pulled into a motorway express rest area and got out to stretch their legs. 

At the counter where Sherlock was purchasing crisps, nicotine patches and Red Bull, he noticed a headline in the paper for Newport, just across the headwater of the Bristol Channel. “Irish antiquities board requests return of carving missing from Cardiff Museum”

Sherlock bought it and gave it to John, who was on the way back with a sandwich and two teas. “Here, read this out while we’re on the road. I have a feeling we need to get our skates on.”

They quickened their pace back to the Defender, and pulled out. Sherlock, being one to notice everything that other people thought was furtive, saw a plain white transit van in the rearview, pulling out of the lot behind them and getting on the M4, keeping a steady 50 yard pace behind them and changing lanes when they changed. 

John put his belt on and put his tea in the holder. He opened the Newport gazette to the page of the article. “ ‘Bog ivory statue of goddess wanted back by Ireland’s national museum’. A formal request by Ireland’s government falls on a missing bog ivory statuette kept by Cardiff’s national museum until only 2 weeks ago when it was reported stolen. 

“The only goddess statuette in Britain of Morrigan, or Morgan la Fey as she was called in Arthurian tradition, reposed in Cardiff’s national museum under the junior curatorship of Professor Owen Pritchard. Now she is gone, and both the British Museum and National museum of Ireland want to know why and how. Currently Dr Pritchard says he has ‘the best working on it’ and is currently unavailable for comment. 

“Given the murky history of the Bog Morrigan, and the recent claim by the Irish government, we can only guess that the intrigue surrounds a questionable lot of Irish antiquities that made their way into the infamous collecting hands of the Earl of Carnarvon in Scotland, shortly after the Irish Easter Rising in 1916, which saw the museum of Ireland very quietly looted of various items that they imagined wouldn’t be missed, and sold for weapons for the forces of Michael Collins and Eamon de Valera at the time.

“The Earl photographed and catalogued the Bog Morrigan among various other linnulae, penannular brooches, hoard rings, sword hilts and head carvings, also from bog ivory. Later, he donated various items to the museum of Cardiff, claiming that the carving was Morgan la Fey. However, the Irish antiquities board claims that she was originally found by a fisherman on an isolated island in the Lakes of Fermanagh in the mid 18th century, in a ‘rath’ or ringfort, and kept until his family was offered five pounds for it by an antiquities scout in the late 1890s.

“It too, had been photo catalogued by the British Museum in Ireland until it quietly went missing after 1916. The big question is, which country owns this carving that nobody can now find?”

 

John Watson folded the paper. “So, who are we working for?”

“Not either government,” said Sherlock, “but Pritchard himself. He supposedly wants us to find this carving and get it to the auction house to be valued and kept in a vault until this can get sorted.” he sounded guarded.

“You don’t sound completely certain.”

“I’m not.” said Sherlock. “I think Pritchard has this item hidden and in his possession. I think a private collector is about to offer him a lot more for it.”

“Does it seem that obvious to you?” asked John.

“You do recall that business with General Shan?” asked Sherlock. John raised his eyebrows and sucked in his breath, recalling just how deadly the Chinese can be regarding antiquities. 

“Someone wants this item, and they’re willing to pay more than the Irish government requesting a donation. The professor in his email isn’t asking me to find it, except to say in passing that it needs to be found. He’s asking me to find out who’s threatening him. Passive reference to your crisis missing item screams ‘guilty’ to me. He has it, but who’s the buyer, and why is he terrified?” asked Sherlock. “I can only figure this out when I see him. Also, we…have a shadow. In a transit van.”

John snapped his head down to the rearview and adjusted it to see the white transit van behind them. “So, what’s the plan? Lose them?” asked John.

After passing the toll booths on the other side, Sherlock noticed a large bank of fog swallowing the M4 bridge across the Bristol Channel. “John, get the map out of the M4 here at the Severn Bridge. We need to find a really quick hiding spot just off the bridge because this fog bank won’t last. Lay-bys, service roads, anything.”

“I’m on it,” said John, and yanked out the map while they entered onto the suspension bridge. The two gigantic H-shaped suspension towers at the center crept slowly toward them. Just past those, the fog bank swallowed the bridge.

“Right. Buckled?” said Sherlock. The transit van nonchalantly kept up with them. Sherlock quickly put on his leather gloves.

“Yep.” said John, flipping quickly through the atlas.

“Right.” said John. “There’s a lay-by as soon as the bridge ends. Almost exactly one hundred yards from where the bridge rails end flush to the ground. The lay-by connects directly to the service road behind it that parallels the M4, and looks like it heads in both directions. We can either keep going, or…” he looked at the map. “Or, we can double back for the 100 yards, go under the bridge and head north till we get to the A48 and take that secondary road all the way into Cardiff.”

“We probably need to do just that. I suspect if they don’t see us, they will wait at the toll bridge, and there won’t be any side roads going past it, to prevent toll avoidance.” Sherlock had been slowly accelerating as they crossed the bridge, and their transit van shadow had kept up with them. They were now rapidly approaching 90 miles an hour, well over the speed limit. Now they knew they had to get rid of the van.

“Hang onto your tea.” said Sherlock. He leaned forward at the wheel and shifted into the middle lane, to avoid the slower cars. He pulled the switch for the fog lights and punched it. Right past the suspension poles, he entered a white night at 110 miles an hour.

John went as white as the fog. The visibility in front of them couldn’t have been more than 60 yards at the most, and they were now plowing into it at top speed. He couldn’t think of anyone doing anything more stupid. 

Sherlock wasn’t keen on it either. He was a beast of precision maneuvering. “John, will I have to fully stop to get on the service road?” he asked intensely.

“No. You’ll be able to maneuver onto it at least 30 miles an hour.”

“All right. I’m trusting you.” Sherlock passed 3 cars that were in the far left lane, wsst, wsst, wsst… and shoved the Defender back into the far left lane, at over 100 miles an hour.

“The bridge rails are about to end. As soon as they end it’s one hundred yards.” Said John, gripping the bar above the window and the handbrake by instinct. His heart was in his mouth. He looked in the rearview and the transit van was not visible, but it couldn’t have been more than two hundred yards behind them.

Sherlock rapidly began to brake and the lay-by approached with three seconds to spare before they passed it. He rapidly shifted into fourth, and the Defender fell in speed without squealing a single tire. Sherlock heaved the car off the motorway, first once onto the lay-by then onto the back service road in rapid succession, and suddenly they were on the gravel track behind the motorway and behind a verge of trees. 

Sherlock noted the gravel was good for a handbrake turn. Lightning fast he gripped the handbrake and pressed the button. John and he both heaved the handbrake upward in unison, both of them thrown to the left by the immediate centrifuge. Sherlock’s shoulder slammed against his door with his hands gripping the wheel and John’s head hit Sherlock’s back.

Quickly, while facing the opposite direction, Sherlock slammed his foot on the accelerator and headed down to the gravel underpass beneath the M4 they just exited, and booked it, dust and gravel flying behind them. They stopped beneath the M4 and waited for their shadow.

Both were short of breath and heavy with adrenalin. John’s hand had gripped the handbrake and sissy bar above his door window so hard, that he had to pull his hands off by the wrist and wriggle his fingers to regain mobility. He was piled into the back of his seat by forward thrust and his eyes were so wide, they took over his entire face. Sherlock looked like a deer in the headlights, heaving his chest up and down.

Ridiculous with terror, they looked at each other and broke into gales of laughter. “My tea’s gone down my leg,” said John breathlessly. “and the front of me.” he laughed. “But that was some nice driving. Actually, BRILLIANT driving.”

“I know.” said Sherlock, without a gram of humility.

“Where’d you learn?!”

“County Kerry. From a Northern Ireland rally driver named Sterling Cook.”

“The champion?! Fergus Sterling Cook?”

“None other. He was the best of the best. It…feels good to let it out again. In London I lose the desire to enjoy driving.” said Sherlock, rubbing the wheel with both his hands and gazing icily at the road in front of him. He looked over at John. “But we’ll be doing this again in two weeks.”

“Wait. You want me to be your map reader at the rally in Donegal? Fifty yards turn left, twenty yards turn right, slow to thirty, all that sort of rubbish?”

“It isn’t rubbish, John. You did it just now, and that was the most difficult thing any rallier could do. You’re a brilliant navigator. I wouldn’t have anyone else except Sterling himself navigating for me.” 

“I dunno, Sherlock. I could get us killed in a second doing that.” John furrowed his brows and looked down, rubbing his sore knuckles.

“You won’t. I trust you. And representing the O’Flaherty family in the rally will get us plenty of answers that the police can’t get. Mycroft has us protected while we’re there.” Said Sherlock, and hesitated. He looked back over at John, and sighed out his last bit of adrenalin. 

“I trust you.” he said again, pursing his lips, and slowly blinking his eyes, the way he did when his sincerity was fully bare and without a single veil, the only such Sherlock that existed when telling John what he meant was, you are everything I stake my being on. Don’t forget that.

He sighed, and started the engine. John gazed at him for a long moment, the whites of his eyes glowing thoughtfully in the darkness under the M4 bridge. He cleared his throat and found the towel in the glovebox to wipe the tea off his front, pressed the heater button to dry himself and got a fresh shirt out of his day backpack.

In those tiny moments of pure sincerity, Sherlock was more human than anyone John knew who wore their heart on their sleeve. And it got him every time.

“All right. If you trust me, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” the Defender roared off northward and rejoined the A48 down into Cardiff.

“By the way, you didn’t pay the toll.” mentioned John in passing with a half-smile.

“Bugger the toll.” said Sherlock. “If the speed camera could get me in that fog, Mycroft would be ringing already.”

\---  
John and Sherlock arrived in Cardiff about two hours later than expected; the A48 was a secondary road subject to multiple delays. It was three in the afternoon, and the timeframe they had to tour the antiquities department with Pritchard for a full briefing was running perilously thin. Fortunately due to the political and media kerfuffle surrounding the Bog Morrigan, Pritchard was able to arrange an extended briefing.

Sherlock parked the Defender in a less conspicuous location, behind a clinic off Park Lane, and they walked one street over to the main entrance of the museum. Sherlock brought out his mobile and dialed Pritchard. 

“We’re here…right, Iron Age, ten minutes.” Sherlock turned over to John and nodded. They got into the main foyer and grabbed a map, and wound their way to Archaeology on the third floor.

As soon as they got into the Iron Age display gallery, Owen Pritchard came over with a wide smile and shook their hands. Sherlock made some quick observations. Pritchard seemed a bit more relaxed than his emails had indicated, but behind him came a PA, about 27 years of age, a moderately pretty, medium built woman in black skirt and green blouse who was carrying a large file in both arms and seemed far more uptight. 

Deduction came quick and fast.

Her neck was so tense and her body language so terse that Sherlock sensed near panic. But she was incredibly soft spoken and wore a beaded necklace with a star on it. No, a pentagram. Her hair was not that shade of red naturally; up, but a bit messy; she smelled of patchouli and sandalwood, she smoked. 

Cat hair on her shoes and cardigan. Antler tattoo barely visible under her shirt collar on the back of her neck…large tattoo. Two earring holes, empty. Earrings removed to look respectable. One set of holes extended, tribal phase in college with ear extensions. Nose ring removed. Did she get conservative, or does she live a double life? Museum ID lanyard covered in gold pins of statues, neolithic spirals, Venus of Willendorf. Feminist. Proud of working here. Semi-permanent college employee, state employee, lifetime in institutions. Eyes on the floor, embarrassed, mortified. 

Pagan.

Sherlock’s eyes drifted over to Pritchard. Close trimmed brown and white beard, about 47 years old. Relaxed suitcoat with leather patches, corduroys, no tie under the shirt collar. Chalk dust on the front left hand pocket from reaching up to a chalkboard. Left-handed. Antique gold spectacles with filigree. Old money family? Wedding ring mark etched into left hand ring finger. Removed. Divorce. Widower would likely still be wearing his.

Sherlock reached his hand out. “Good afternoon, Doctor Pritchard.” 

Pritchard smiled pleasantly and shook Sherlock’s hand. “I am so thankful to have you here, gentlemen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Posh accent. Didn’t ask for first name basis. Old money, middle aristo. Or second or third son of Earl.

“This is my PA and understudy, Breege Bailey.” She held out a limp hand to each Sherlock and John, gave a curt nod, and then her eyes fell to the floor again. Irish pronunciation of Bridget, thought Sherlock. 

“John Watson.” John held his hand out and shook Pritchard’s. 

“Yes, Dr. Watson. I have the pleasure of reading your blog, and both you and Sherlock have the distinct experience in the recovery of antiquities. We are in great need of this experience right about now.”

“We read in the papers that there is an antiquity that the government of Ireland is demanding be returned to the National Museum. It looks like a fairly sticky situation.” said Sherlock, guardedly.

“Stickier than you know.” said Pritchard. “It appears that the Bog Morrigan has instigated a massive underground feud, and we are at the centre of it.” his eyes furtively glanced over to Breege Bailey. Sherlock noticed disgust in his tone of voice, and she looked positively mortified. She has something to do with this, and confessed to him, thought Sherlock.

“So you suspect who is at the centre of this, then?” asked Sherlock.

“Poseurs and playacting.” snorted Pritchard. “But we’ll discuss this out of the public eye later on.”

“So, tell us about this carving.” said John. “How old is it? What’s it depict?”

“She’s a goddess figure, eight inches high, carved out of brown Irish Elk antler ivory, and it’s just a simplistic carving of a woman carrying a crow figure on her arm. But she’s wearing a helmet, and dagger, over her dress, and her dress is decorated with La Tene-style spiralling.” They were slowly walking through the gallery, and Pritchard pointed over to the remains of a magnificent bronze shield. “do you see the decoration on that shield?” he asked. Sherlock looked closer.

“400 BC.” he said, without looking at the placard dating it.

“Very close.” said Pritchard. “That’s the dating of the carving. 2400 years ago. So we’re looking at mid-Iron Age before Roman occupation.”

“She’s quite a find then.” said John. 

“Yes indeed.” said Pritchard. “We had her in the collection since the early twentieth century; it was the infamous Earl of Carnarvon up in Scotland who sent her down to us just before the even more infamous Howard Carter expedition in KV.”

John barely recalled his primary school history lesson. “King Tut…” he mentioned to himself. “…Kings Valley?”

“Precisely.” said Pritchard. 

“So, where is this Bog Morrigan figure now?” asked Sherlock, cutting abruptly to the chase.

“Well, that’s where we need to go up to my office in Numismatics.” said Pritchard. “Let’s discuss this over some tea.”

Breege had been following quietly behind, while Sherlock waited patiently to pick up her accent. “I’ll make the tea for us and bring it up from the canteen.” she said, and veered away to go back down the lift to the restaurant on the second floor.

Posh Dublin accent. Ballsbridge, D4, Killiney, Blackrock, Bray, thought Sherlock. Getting her doctorate when something embarrassing happened, he thought, and she’s desperately attempting to mop up the tatters of her career. The British Museum network was internationally a really big career step. She could be studying archaeology in Ireland well enough, he thought, but this internship was her future bread and butter to curatorship internationally.

And she’s made a really huge mistake, somehow connected to this.  
\---

Breege offered to take John and Sherlock’s coats and hang them on the very old mahogany hat tree just outside Pritchard’s office in Archaeology and Numismatics. Sherlock hesitated a second, looked her in the eye, and accepted her offer. John said he had a chill, and kept his military jacket on.

Coming out of an echoing corridor, Sherlock and John entered what was once a beautiful set of rooms with high windows and vaulted ceiling. Now they were partially obstructed by shelves and shelves of books, piles of dusty oriental rugs, and case after case of thoughtlessly jumbled artefacts in the middle of cataloguing, or up for research purposes forgotten five or ten years ago. The entire wall by the door was stacked with opened cardboard boxes from various addresses all over Wales and western Britain, products of various digs which had to be brought out, catalogued, cleaned, restored, carbon dated for verification, and placed in the vault.

Between a half-dead fern and a spider plant gone mad with runners, Breege found a location near Pritchard’s desk to place the tea tray. The spot she chose was the least covered in unidentifiable dust and dead bluebottle flies. The bright summer daylight poured thinly through high Edwardian windows, opaquely yellowed with decades of pipe-sporting curators long gone with the new smoking laws. She switched on the Tiffany lamps in the corners and started pouring the tea into perfectly rosy Royal Albert china that did not match the shambles surrounding them.

“Cream, sugar?” she asked them generally.

“Double whack of both, please.” said Sherlock, who liked sugar more than most diabetics.

“Just milk, please.” said John.

Sherlock and John sat down in two grandiose teak monstrosities padded with crushed and arseworn upholstery that had long lost their patterns, except for the barest hint of paisley at the brass rivets. Pritchard’s seat behind his desk was the world’s ugliest wheeled office chair. Breege handed him his tea, and passed theirs to John and Sherlock, who both took the barest sips and simultaneously placed both saucers on the edge of Pritchard’s desk.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked straight at Pritchard. “I’d like to see the artifact, please.”

“It’s lost.” said Pritchard. “What I need from you is to find out who…”

Sherlock switched on his deduction machine. John could see the steely glare suddenly manifest, the rod snap tight in Sherlock’s back, his hands calmly interlaced in his lap, the small bend forward. He sank in his chair and turned his gaze from Pritchard, looking away apologetically just to avoid their inevitable mortification.

“It is not lost, it is in your possession. Breege works in the vaults here cataloguing artefacts for your office. She knew that the Bog Morrigan was here, but somehow she found the Bog Morrigan cross-referenced in a Dublin museum catalogue that predated the Irish civil war and assumed that it was property of the Irish state that had been stolen. Carved deities are rare in the Celtic tradition except as stone pillars and early Christianity took care of most of those, so a carved statue of a goddess would be valuable beyond fortune. 

“The two of you are enjoying a fling, you because you’re lonely, her because she thinks it’s good for her career. But that’s where her loyalty ended. She discovered an artifact that she thought was stolen by the British from Ireland, and it was too much for her not to inform the authorities in Ireland. Which she did. She sent them both catalogue entries. So now the Irish State officially requests the item to be returned, probably at the valued price it was bought around what, 1918? 1920? At what was considered the cut rate price of a few quid thanks to unscrupulous employees of the museum in Dublin, and the scouts of the earl of Carnarvon.

“But the earl made a generous donation to your museum to stay in the good books of all the British institutions. He sent you the Bog Morrigan. And your PA here, Breege, found her in the vaults and took her home to keep. And I think she told people. I don’t know who. But they’re the ones threatening you now. And it eventually dawned on her somehow that she made a mistake that could cost her a career.

“So she gave it back to you with her shameful confession in order to keep her job. And you have it, here, hidden in the insanity of your office that no one could possibly have the covert time to rifle through, so someone is trying to scare it out of you, or has offered you a large sum of money, or both. You reported the artifact stolen and you are biding time to see what you are offered between warring bidders.”

“So, Dr. Pritchard. I would like to look at this artifact. Please get it for me.”

Sherlock sat stock-still, waiting for a response. Pritchard was holding onto the edge of his desk and leaning back in shock. Breege was sheet white and looked absolutely defeated.

Slowly, with shaking hands, he reached to the middle drawer of his desk, opened it slowly, and brought out something wrapped in a tea towel and white crepe paper.

Sherlock reached out with his eyes glaring down Pritchard’s, and lifted the towel wrapped item. He peeled back the tea towel and the white crepe paper, and there was a dark coffee-coloured statue of a goddess in dress that seemed to summon the Book of Kells, sporting a crow in her upturned hand, spirals on her dress, a helmet and dagger, and a spear behind her. It was a flattish figure, carved out of a wide, thick section of Irish Elk antler, and was half sculpture and half engraving as the features were not fully carved out. 

It was pretty, and fairly detailed. The cracking of the antler indicated it had seen a very many years, and there was a section of the edge of her dress that seemed cut off. “Radiocarbon dating?” asked Sherlock, almost to himself.

“The antler is 14,000 years old, it’s Irish Elk.”

“14,000 years ago was the ice age. Uninhabitable.” said Sherlock.

“You’re right.” said Pritchard. “So we have to go on that these markings were made later, but still during the mid-Iron age. And it was found in an Iron Age ringfort on an island in Fermanagh. But that’s not why I rang you.”

“Why did you ring us?” asked Sherlock.

“To help find out who is terrorizing me, because the police have no idea, and can only ask me to find out so I can get them an ASBO. That’s all. And I’m dead tired, and scared, and haven’t gotten any decent sleep for a week thanks to all the threats. Which, by the way, are terrifying. Mail drops written in blood, blood and candles on my doorstep, dead goat in my driveway up at my cabin in Tydfil, bellows spear in my garden, whooping in the wood.

“I am literally at my wit’s end. Please help.” Pritchard’s voice was breaking.

“You’re debating with yourself as to selling this but you’re afraid of what someone else may do to you, professor, isn’t that right.” said Sherlock. “Look, I’ll help you, but you need to be honest with me. Obviously since it isn’t lost, selling it isn’t an option, it’s museum property. But you’re afraid of what will happen to you if you don’t sell it, or if you send it to Dublin, or if you sell it to one party and not another. You are damned in all directions, and the only option you have to keep your professional reputation and person safe, is for me to expose and discredit whoever is doing this to you.”

Breege burst into tears and fled the room. Her conscience had gotten the better of her.

Pritchard’s head was down looking at the ground, his hands were still on his desk, fingers dug into his leather desk cover, and he had pushed his chair back. His motives were bare now thanks to Sherlock. John looked up to see his face. 

Pritchard raised his head, tears in his eyes. “Yes.” He said. “Yes to all of it.”

“Good.” said Sherlock. “Now, you are going to give me a lead to interview tomorrow to see what’s going on.”

“Only if you tell him that you are the law, and there’s nothing he can do to me now. He’s been putting the pressure on me to sell this to him like you wouldn’t believe. But I surely think he’s not the main culprit for the threats.” said Pritchard.

“Write down his address and number, and we will interview him tomorrow.” said Sherlock. Pritchard sighed deeply and wrote down the name and number.

Before giving the paper to Sherlock, he added, “Please. Whatever you do, this man gives enormously to the community. His grove volunteers for soup kitchens and fundraising. They own charity shops that benefit the elderly and children with cancer. Please do not address him disrespectfully, and send my utmost regrets and regards.” 

Sherlock took it, folded it, and nodded. “We’ll ring you tomorrow.” and they left.

John and Sherlock burst out of the front doors of the museum and bounded down the steps onto Gorsedd Gardens Road. “Right.” said John. “Where first?”

“Where indeed.” said Sherlock. “How about dinner?”

“Bit early for you.” said John. 

Sherlock stopped for a second and drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket; it wasn’t the one Owen Pritchard had given him. “Breege has given us the answer to most of this riddle. She feels horrible about what she did. And it’s gravy for us.”

John took the paper and read it.

Bigwig meeting tonight, all parties involved re the Morrigan. Meeting at Pontypridd rocking stone circle at midnight. Please, whatever you do, stay hidden. I will be escorting in J. She does not know I have changed my mind. She is dangerous.

My religion was everything to me, but I have discovered of late that it is also a means to an end for the ruthless. This is called a witch war, and I am mortified that I brought this on by informing my superiors in the tradition. This has spiraled out of control and it is my fault. I love Owen. Please don’t let anything happen to him.

B

They took off again down Park Place and took the path one street over to get to the car just on the other side. “Religion?” asked John. “How is this about religion?”

“Neo-paganism.” said Sherlock, walking so fast his coat was flying behind him. John kept pace. “Probably the most deeply divided set of beliefs on Earth, belonging to those who academically batter about with contrived sorcery and animistic shamanism because they haven’t the courage to be atheists. The problem is, like tribal pagans, it’s rooted in racial and cultural identity and not any particular genuine ideology, so when it’s pagan versus pagan, there’s no moral structure there to buffer a battle of beliefs.”

“You know, there were some blokes in the Army making a bit of a fuss about being acknowledged as pagans and having their own chaplain. I remember that too.” said John. “But I can’t recall actually knowing any of them.”

“It’s the same as any other form of religion. Believing that someone invisible likes you the best. It’s tiresome nonsense whether or not it’s a god or goddess.” Sherlock whipped out his keys and pressed the unlock button on the fob.

“Sherlock, you know how I get when you start god-hating. We all need a moral compass.” said John as the car chirped, and he opened the Landrover’s door.

“Ugh. Not again. You really think this is as legitimate as any other form of superstition?” sighed Sherlock in agitation. “My moral compass doesn’t need an invisible deity who made the universe, John. It works fine on its own.” Sherlock made it to the Defender, launched himself in, and slammed the door shut.

“Yes, I can tell.” said John. “By how compassionate and caring you are for humanity’s suffering.” he added, acidly. 

He regretted that immediately, because he knew Sherlock better than to strike out so quickly. Sherlock employed the art of being a complete judgmental jerk to protect his own compassion, because that compassion was far bigger than the well most people have at their disposal. “Sorry…it’s just…sometimes.” John’s eyebrows furrowed deeply. “You’re a bit of an atheist ass.”

Sherlock sighed deeply, licked his lips, and didn’t answer back. He took another deep breath, and changed the subject. “We don’t have to work until eleven tonight. We’ll be staying in Pontypridd, north of here, at a B&B right outside town and adjacent to the rocking stone circle.” He started the car. “Right now, there’s a nice independent Italian restaurant just on Cardiff Bay, just above the Ianto Jones Memorial on the boardwalk. I like to go there to walk and think. You mind Italian?”

John looked at him quietly. “Not at all. You’re buying, as always.”

“Always.” said Sherlock, and took off to Cardiff Bay.


End file.
